Ceci n'est pas un conte de fées
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: They no longer live that fairytale. They haven't for a while.


Author's note: I really like France/Germany at all stages of their relationship, because they both fascinate me separately and so doubly fascinate me together. This is them falling apart.

* * *

**Ceci n'est pas un conte de fées**

There's a beauty to how the light streams in through the dirty window, how the fumes dance gracefully from Francis's mouth, how scratchy Ludwig's voice is as he once more complains, "Put that out." It was the German who had first made the Frenchman quit smoking after all; Francis has yet to make up his mind on that.

"Non," he sighs defiantly, inhaling deeply and forming more circles with his exhale as the man still laying beside him in bed stretches. It was Sunday, the only day Ludwig ever slept in, because Gilbert used to get him up to go to church but now Ludwig doesn't believe anymore and Francis can't really blame him for that, not after everything that's happened.

"Too early to fight you Francis," the German sighs, finally laboring up. His back muscles ripple from the sheer act, the man all lean protein and impressive build. Once upon a time, at the very beginning of their fairytale relationship, Francis would put out his cigarette and run his hands all over Ludwig's back. He would kiss that neck and pull the man back to bed, his lithe, thin form providing such stark contrast to his neighbor.

They no longer live that fairytale. They haven't for a while.

Oh, Francis still loves Ludwig. He loves Ludwig's dedication, how he treats his family, the way his face softens when he speaks with small children. The dreaded soldier melts away in those moments to reveal a man who grew up in fear and famine, who still feels a failure and needs to be reassured, no matter how successful he becomes, that he is not a disappointment, that he is worthy of love.

Ludwig's failing is that he is young where Francis is old.

The Frenchman's bored, really, that's all there is to it. He's only ever had one relationship that lasted the fifty-year mark and that was Arthur: they fought and they waged war and yet they always seemed to come back together somehow, somewhere, someway. Francis isn't exactly looking to make it two long-term relationships.

He watches his lover stretch before dressing: simple pants, an undershirt, a shirt he doesn't bother buttoning. Ludwig's hair is still a mess but the Frenchman had once told him he likes it like that and so on Sundays the man lets his hair be.

Francis, naked, takes one more drag of his cigarette before breathing, "We should break up, shouldn't we?" Ludwig at the door shrugs.

"That's what we do, isn't it?" and the Frenchman knows he means nations like they are; for them and their kind there were serious relationships, and then there were several-century relationships that were always, inevitably, doomed to fail. Everyone knew which one the man loathed more than anything else.

"More or less." Francis puts out the cigarette, letting his head fall back on the pillow and staring out the window. He could have sworn he'd heard Ludwig leave when the man comes into his line of vision, standing on his side of the bed before sitting on the mattress edge.

There's something sad and desperate and lonely in those eyes, something Francis knows is reflected back in his own gaze. That and that above all else had been what had drawn them together, but now was it really necessary? Was this, their relationship, worth anything anymore?

"How long will I love you?" Ludwig muses quietly before pressing his lips to Francis's, arms drawing the two men together.

"Until the sun falls," the older man sighs, pressing their foreheads together, "and the stars fail. It is our curse."

Ludwig takes another kiss, more demanding but less passionate, and with that he stands and exits the room.

Later they could split their things. They could sit and have a rational talk because Ludwig liked rational and Francis was an expert in the area of love.

Well, as expert as a man with a forever-broken heart could be.

It had all just become boring was the problem. Boring and stable and predictable and maybe others yearned for that but not Francis. He wanted to fight, he wanted to scream, he wanted to feel his blood pumping and his face flush and he wanted to live. He wanted to need. He wanted to love.

With his wrong hand Francis lights up his phone, finding that he has three messages: his sister wanted to know when his flight down in a week's time was again, his boy was trying to figure out when he could next visit Paris, and Arthur demanded to know what exactly had possessed Francis Bonnefoy to tell the Scandinavian nations that he whimpers when he sleeps.

Perhaps it would be a productive day yet.

* * *

Ludwig stands at the window in the kitchen and sighs with relief; it was as if a weight on his chest that he hadn't known he'd been carrying had been lifted.

Oh, he loved Francis. He loved Francis more than he had ever loved another: he had his brother, and he had his cousin's once-wife, and he had his childhood playmate, and he had his foul-weather friend.

But Francis had been different.

Had been different.

He had loved Francis.

Had loved Francis.

One of the things he's learned after thirty-eight years with the man was that this was what happened: two nations came together, they burned bright like a candle, and then the light went out when the end of the wick came. Francis had taught Ludwig that it was best to simply find the next candle before darkness came and accept that what light there had been had been bright and beautiful but was gone.

You could never have that candle back.

You could never rekindle a fire in the heart that has gone out.

It was better this way, really. Francis and Ludwig had always been honest with one another; why should there break-up be anything different? They could figure it all out later, in a civilized fashion, because they were adults and they respected each other.

It would be ok.

Yet the German still grips the sink tightly and squeezes his eyes shut. Francis had told him that to have a heart that still hurt was rare, especially after all that Ludwig had seen and all that Ludwig had done. Francis was, in that respect, near-dead; it took more to bring him to life, so much more than the younger man had in him.

He still had his brother, and his cousin's once-wife-now-girlfriend. He could call his childhood playmate, hear her giggle and remember that it's ok to be young. He would visit his foul-weather friend and the man would know just how to ignore everything weighing on Ludwig to cheer the German up.

When he lets out his laugh the tears finally fall and Ludwig doesn't care. He feels eyes on him from the kitchen door and so whispers, "I'm ok with all this."

"Good," Francis breathes. "Good."


End file.
